


Light Me Up When I’m Down.

by LeafOfTrees



Series: Not Where I Belong [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth (Death- I’m Sorry-), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arkham Asylum, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Dark Bruce Wayne, Friendship/Love, Healing, M/M, Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27282019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafOfTrees/pseuds/LeafOfTrees
Summary: Alternate universe!He’s destroyed everything he loves, Bruce is broken, alone in Arkham Asylum.It takes a madman to wake him up, make him feel alive again.***“You’re bleeding.” he reaches into his pocket, bringing out a tissue, raising his palm to Jerome’s face before he indeed speculates about what he is undertaking and to whom, he’s wiping away the blood from a scared face.As if he cares….does he care? There’s assuredly something between them, he’s felt it building steadily over the longest time.“Folk'll start talking if you carry on Bruce.” he stills his hand, shrugging his shoulders. Why did he care anyway... he’d failed everyone whose opinions counted, and Bruce was starting to realise, recognize that there was so much more to the infamous Jerome Valeska beneath the surface?
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jerome Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Series: Not Where I Belong [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1991962
Comments: 11
Kudos: 61





	1. Paralysed.

**Author's Note:**

> A few things, this is another little series that will eventually be Jerome/Bruce/Jeremiah. This first part though is all Jerome/Bruce. 
> 
> Warnings for Angst, Mental health issues. 
> 
> Also I’m so sorry Alfred (I do love you really.)

**Paralysed.**

Everything is a smear of images, sounds, impressions that feel so terribly far away from what he perceives to be true, he is sitting, his eye fastened to his palms, hands smeared with crimson liquid, blood, so much of it peppered on his pale skin, on his clothing. The blood is important though isn’t it? The blood is a sign of his sins, stamping him as a monster...a killer. 

He is floating in an ocean of desensitisation, nothing seems as it should, visions swim through his muddled mind. Faint visions of individuals and places and events he recognises but feels cut off from. His mind has been meddled with, changed the specialists had pointed out, it would take time for all to work out, time and acknowledgment from Bruce himself to support his mind’s road to repair, it could take years or months it all depended on the means to treating his fragmented mind, it all depended on Bruce himself.

“How are you this week?”Jim Gordon asks as he draws a chair opposite, Bruce doesn’t respond, he never does but Jim never gives up—week after week after week, he shows up here, sits in the facing chair, talks, talks, talks and invariably, Bruce remains restrained, looking ahead, passive...he’s astonished by the man’s perseverance, his obstinacy, his overbearing persistence.

He won’t acknowledge, despite the man’s extended attempts. He has nothing meaningful to express. 

Jim sighs rubbing his forehead, “I appreciate you’ve been through a lot Bruce, and I’m sorry that what happened to you...happened—“Bruce looks aside from him, the first conscious act he’s held during the entire visit, Jim is looking hopeful now that he’ll talk, he doesn’t, he won’t, but he decides to listen, he pays consideration for the moment or until he can hold it no longer and withdraws into himself once again. 

He craves to be left alone, to receive the medicine they’ll pump him with.

He’s just watching for the timer to run out, for the visit to come to an end, to return to his room, so he can be alone—seeing Jim always drags up unwanted memories he’d rather stayed buried. 

“I know you feel like giving up, but you need to fight, get better...it’s what Alfr—-“Bruce stands abruptly pushing away from the table, he’s had enough of this conversation, he’ll hear no more. 

His eyes wander to the edge of the room, then dart away swiftly, his breathing turning to rapid pants, he doesn’t wish to look at the figure lurking there at the corner of his vision, he can’t...he can’t stand the disappointed eyes watching at him, the accusation shining there.

‘You did this, you did this.’ Words he could deal with, concepts he foresaw to have driven at him in rage, in fury for what he’d done.

‘I love you, I forgive you...remember that.’ He can’t continue to hear, on repeat in his head or was it reality? He isn’t so sure of what’s real or imaginary. He fists his palms over his ears, the figure in the corner continues to repeat the words, unrelenting of the suffering that takes over him, he recognizes its not real, he understand to a degree it’s all in his head but...but it seems real, the specialist’s mention it’ll pass in time—quicker if he faces it, if he talks about what happened, he’ll come to accept the devastation his actions caused. They say he needs to open himself, allow the emotions in, face his demons and grieve before true healing can begin.

He simply can’t. He can’t face it.

‘Remember that I love you.’ No, he thinks, go elsewhere, go away, go away, maybe he’s talking aloud repeatedly, he can’t be certain but Jim has been nudged away by a dozen orderlies who crowd around him, holding him by the arms, by the legs and he thrashes against them, roaring at them, flashing his teeth.

A wild thing.

They hit him with a tranquilliser to soothe him, to paralyse him further. Strapping to his bed to prevent him from harming himself, from thrashing and shrieking and biting them. He challenges them for a whole month, until his energy depletes and the stronger dosage of medicine they inject him with begins to work, numbing him enough to finally be untied, able to move around his chamber. they assign him to attend group therapy sessions after a term of moderate behaviour.

He never talks, or attempts to communicate or cooperate with discussion with the other inmates, or answer them when he’s focused on by the doctors.

The weeks go by one after the other, trickling into months and Jim’s visits become less commonplace, less persistent. He loses interest when Bruce proceeds to reject him, avoiding everything. His visitations slowly shifts from once a week to once every two, later three, then regularly to monthly and Bruce knows, shortly, promptly he will cease absolutely. Bruce will have peace at last from his incessant questions, peace from the torment of revisiting a past he craves to evade.

He’s thankful a month later when Jim doesn’t show up at all for his routine visit, nor does he show the next month or the next or the next, finally Bruce can meander along in peace, in quiet. His nightmares only plaguing him when he’s finally able to close his eyes and fall asleep, he doesn’t want to look at anybody who’ll remind him of the hollow burning his chest open.

For the things he’s done, the individuals whose deaths coat his palms. Sometimes when he’s suffering an unquestionably rough time he can’t negate the sight of crimson staining his skin, it won’t rinse away, no matter how much he blinks and blinks the stain remains, blood on his hands, all he vowed to himself he wouldn’t become he has.

He despises himself for it.

XXXXX

There’s a face in the vent of his chamber, inquisitive eyes peeping at him. Bruce ignores it night after night after night, he identifies the face, recalls the face, the laugh...he remembers feeling the dark reel inside of him, thinks of the expression on his face displayed in a maze of mirrors.

Smeared paint, blood, fury, violence, kill, kill, kill.

A shard of sharp, broken mirror raised ready to strike flesh.

Bruce doesn’t care to force himself to acknowledge anything now, so he shifts on his side, twists away from the gleaming eyes staring in, turns his back on everything and everyone.

“We’re the same now, Brucie,”croons a recognizable voice, it’s the first time he’s spoken, at least Bruce thinks so, some nights he’s so high on the medicine they feed him, he either blacks out or else the room spins in such sickening circles he lays looking up at the ceiling feeling wretched. “I always saw there was a killer in you.”

He sighs wishing Jerome would leave him alone, but, why would he? He hadn’t done so for months now, every night without fail Bruce felt his lurking presence within the slight cavity of his wall always observing, invariably just there.

“I bet you were glorious, did you enjoy it?”he covers his ears, his breaths becoming brisk, a panic attack rearing its head because there are reflections, fragments and pieces ripping through the barrier he’s constructed and he doesn’t wish to see, to touch, to recognize what he did, who he ruined. “No, I don’t expect you did...it’s tearing you up inside isn’t it?”

“Please leave, please go, just leave.”he whispers hoarsely over and over, gripping his skull like a vice between his palms, it stings, he doesn’t care, he’ll accept the burn.

If it blocks the figure in the corner from smiling at him wistfully, eyes glistening as he recites again repeatedly, “I love you, I forgive you.” Why, why, why? he demands, thinking to yell or maybe he is yelling. 

He can’t be sure, he’s never so sure of anything these days.

He can’t breath, his chest is so tight he draws to inhale in a gasp, there’s pain in his head, aching in his rib cage, agony in his heart, his crushed heart...an exhausted heart. And he detests them, the people he should cherish, he shuns them all and, and, and he yearns, hopes so very much that he would perish.

There’s a blade in his fists, a blade through a chest...blood here and there.

“I forgive you.”

“No, no, no….please stop,please, please stop:” there’s a clang that’s rings out around the chamber, hands dragging his own aside, he realises he’s been scratching at his cheeks, his eyes take in the blood in his fingernails, on his palms.

There’s a whistle, “shit, you actually lost it huh?”Bruce stills as his eyes lift the individual keeping his wrists and Jerome Valeska is looking down at him with a drawn eyebrow. “What the hell happened to you Bruce Wayne?”he ponders aloud.

He struggles to wrench free but he’s much too feeble, far too damaged to muster the fortitude and he replies, falling backwards again the frigid surface, the wall, “just go elsewhere, leave me.”indeed his tone is harsh, cracking because he declines to communicate most days, save his mutterings to the figure in the corner—his eyes drift to the space and Jerome follows his gaze, can he see him too?

“I don’t see anything,”Jerome says softly.

Bruce frowns, had he voiced aloud again?

“Yeah, you do it more than you realise, I’m guessing.” Oh? He didn’t notice, didn’t care to be fair. “Come on, let's clean you up or they’ll stick you in solitary and harness you down again.” Bruce doesn’t argue, he can’t be bothered, so he quietly remains still letting Jerome gather some tissues, dampen them in the miniature sink by the toilet and sponge away the mess he’s made of himself.

They don’t talk again and Jerome leaves in the manner he entered once he’s satisfied Bruce will pass the orderlies inspection come morning, nor does he come back at night to torment Bruce through the wall vent.

And Bruce holds a flicker of gratitude, the first reaction he’s allowed himself to accept for nearly nine months.

XXXX

Days filter into weeks slowly, though Bruce certainly doesn’t have much grasp of time. So he isn’t absolutely sure the length that has passed since Jerome Valeska last invaded his room, and Bruce is drained and torn in a manner he doesn't understand how to begin fixing, so he discounts the presence he suddenly becomes aware of for as long as achievable, or at least until Jerome calls his attention.

He shifts from his position facing the wall, turning on his side to examine the redhead pacing the room.

“Ya see Brucie, I miss ya baby doll...I miss the brooding, the scowling and that sharp tongue of yours.”his eyes gleam wickedly shifting to confront the brunette. “So I decided I’m gonna fix ya.” Bruce assesses Jerome with little interest but he can see the determination blazing in his eyes and he realizes the madman means what he’s claiming.

If Bruce was anything like he used to be, perhaps he’d be disturbed, not now though, now he just could not force himself to even speculate about Anything, let alone worry what Jerome might mean by his statement. So he gives a shrug, the smallest of gestures.

“You’re welcome to try.”he retorts his tone hushed.

“Oh, I will Baby doll...I’m nothing if not determined when my mind is set.”he peers closer his face mere inches from Bruce’s and he might have once flinched away from the maniac, in fear, in disgust—now all he does is trail his eyes over his face, lingering momentarily on the raised scarring, noting the slight smirk on his lips and meeting bright hazel eyes. 

“I’m going to wake you up.”Bruce’s heart stutters once, twice, at the depth of Jerome’s proclamation, he acknowledges the thought suddenly sharp in his head, that he craves him to try because nobody else might want to. Because who else will fight for him besides the person whose life he took.

The person who would have moved heaven and earth to take care of him. Bruce feels it would be nice to wake up, maybe even feel alive again.

Jerome raises a finger, trailing it down his cheek and Bruce fights the instinct to recoil away from the contact, it’s been so incredibly long since someone had presented him a whisper of tenderness, recently he’s begun to identify contact with being carted away by doctors and attendants grasping his arms, or the tightness of harnesses pinning him down. Jerome's approach is particularly soft as if he’s prepared for the reaction it’ll draw from Bruce. “It’s going to hurt, you’ve shut it all out—when you let it all in, it’ll hurt like hell.”

Bruce knows he should to say something, anything, and he opens his mouth only to draw up blank, he’s so profoundly fatigued, his mind is whirling fractured memories he can’t really pin together into a full picture when he realises he’s leaning into Jerome’s touch like a feline crying out for attention. He feels immediate heat bloom over his cheeks, embarrassed by his own reaction.

But it’s been so achingly long and he’s extraordinarily cold, lonesome, suffering so deep inside, struggling under a churning sea of turmoil, because he shouldn’t be drawing closer to a character who likes hurting others—who thrives on anarchy and madness and bloodshed—Bruce realizes he shouldn’t like Jerome, shouldn’t look to him or feel safe in his closeness—but he can’t refute its there, that a very small part of him does— and he despises himself a little more on the inside for feeling such things, for confirming all the more what a disappointment he is.

“I hate myself.”The words eventually spring from his lips, he means every word resolutely. He hates who he’s developed into, yearns to return to the person he used to be. “I hate it all.”He acknowledges the emotion rising to the surface, feels it’s dominating strength, the contempt swaddling him fully.

And Jerome chortles, “hate is good…”he says almost fondly, fingering the curls of his hair, “hate is better than feeling nothing.”

He’s right of course Bruce realises silently, hate is an emotion crawling to the surface, so he reaches out, clings to it, clutches it so thoroughly because hate was better than being paralyzed.

Hate would pave the route to finding himself.


	2. My Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce really doesn’t like Oswald Cobblepot, Jerome doesn’t like being ignored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a treat, I’m feeling generous.
> 
> Happy Halloween everyone!🎃 
> 
> You’ll notice I changed the title for this, yeah I was indecisive anyway and I thought this was more fitting for the Jerome/Bruce storyline I have here.

**My Medicine.**

It’s been so long since he last drew stock of his surroundings, registered details of the movement continuingly happening around him, since he squinted into a mirror to gaze at his reflection, to truly examine, gaze upon his pale, drawn face. The dark circles lining his eyes—his hair long, dishevelled—Bruce would need to seek a haircut before the day was ended. It has been a long while developing but, it indicates he is indeed waking up, taking notice of everything as he sits in the dining area, his deep eyes picking up on the new inmates, or those unfamiliar to him at least, since he hadn’t taken tally of who was here before now. Hadn’t wanted to until he’d latched onto the hate.

Recognition shimmers over him when Oswald Cobblepot hobbles forward, looking wretched with his plate in hand, heading in a straight pathway to the dinner table where Bruce always sat, at the very rear of the place, away from prying eyes—well, if you overlooked the pair of hazel eyes that found their trail over to him. He’s sure Oswald hasn’t even spotted him at the very end of the dinner table playing with his meal, he sits down with his tray. It takes a few moments for him to slowly register Bruce sitting opposite.

He’s presenting no surveillance to the man nicknamed Penguin, his gaze is drawn away, spanning across the room until they fix on Jerome Valeska, their eyes meet for a few brief moments—Bruce cannot help but cast liability to him for provoking awareness—a cough sounds, his dark eyes narrow before breaking away to glower at the man clearing his throat to gain his attention.

Oswald seems to seize him up, “my, my...Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon’s biggest failure.” there’s a smug undercurrent to his tone, his eyes gleam with something Bruce can’t be bothered to evaluate further, but his remarks have struck a bared nerve and his entire frame freezes.

‘I’m sorry Bruce, I’ve failed you.’ The words drifted across his mind, an echo of a memory—Jim desperately pleading with him, tired eyes, forlorn expression—he shuts it down.

He can’t suffer it.

His hands stiffen around the plastic spork in his grasp, unstable, trembling from the quivers in his arm, he is conscious of Oswald still speaking but his comments don’t register for a few moments as he seeks to collect himself.

Until…

“I should thank you for breaking his spirit... if you hadn’t lost your mind and skewed that butler of yours—- “Oswald releases a strangled shout as Bruce launches himself across the dinner table, seizing him by the collar of his uniform and forcing the spork against his throat. 

“Don’t. Say. It.” he can’t hear it, if he continues to torment Bruce, the brunette will cut out Oswald's tongue to quiet him. Oswald's eyes water as he trembles before him, his speech becoming pathetic stutters, Bruce doesn’t let go, fury broils beneath his skin surely his eyes burn with it.

“M-my apologies.” He doesn't withdraw, his eyes narrow as he scans Oswald’s face, he should feel awful, shouldn’t he? Wretched for threatening someone, he should feel a righteous sense of immorality, he should release his grip, let him go—remove the spork from his neck—maybe apologise. In the margin of his perception he spots security inching closer, standing by to see what he’ll do, bracing to take Bruce down.

Slowly he pulls away, hurling the spork across the floor and sitting back in his spot, he’s not leaving because this is his bench so Oswald will have to be the one to swallow his pride and move instead.

He doesn’t. 

He is ushered from the dining room ten minutes later when the nurses conclude he might well be volatile enough to strike Oswald again; it seems Oswald is stubborn too because he flat out refuses to leave and instead of bypassing Bruce’s fierce stare; he’s glowering back. All it takes is for Bruce's arm to jerk, and he sees them swoop upon him.

The feel of their hands digging into his flesh unsettles him, he thrashes in their grip, trying to free himself, snapping his teeth—because he will bite if need be—he didn’t want to be touched, not by their rough hands.

They sedate him for the night. As he lays in his bed staring at the bland ceiling, he hears rustling from the vent for the first time in weeks, if he could he’d turn his head or shift a single limb of his heavy body and he knows he’ll see Jerome Valeska watching him with curious eyes, and a smirk twisting his lips? Assuming he enters the chamber again and Bruce could manage it, if he could lift his arm, he’d punch him in the face. But he can’t even turn his head much at all, as he climbs through the opening and enters his room to sit near his bed, his gaze burning a hole into him.

“I think you made ol’ Pengy nearly piss himself.'' There is a snicker of amusement, Bruce sighs, the only noise he can muster, his tongue feels twisted, heavy in his mouth—the drugs were strong this time—Jerome makes a noise as if he understands.

“I get it, they drugged ya up...oh, baby doll what a lovely mess you are eh?” he moves from his perch on the bed but Bruce can’t turn to see where he’s moved but knows seconds later when he feels the tickle of breath on his ear. “Gotta say sweet thing, you were magnificent today, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” A chortle bubbles in his throat, Bruce groans, wishing he could speak, just to tell him to go away again.

He wants to be alone, be left with his demons.

“Darlin’ if ya wouldn’t mind, try not to maim the bird... I have things in motion—kinda need him.” he produces a sound of protest, he longs to convey something along the lines of ‘what’s in the works?’ What mad plan was Jerome conjuring up?

There’s a palm running through his hair then, as if he likes doing that. As if he can’t help but touch Bruce every time they are in proximity, Bruce doesn’t dislike it either, but he’ll never admit it. He’s able to twitch his fingers after a short while, a sign the medication’s hold is lessening. He sighs closing his eyes, feeling drowsy, the soothing brush of Jerome’s fingers combing his hair lulling him.

“Sleep darlin’ you’re doing so well,” whispered words follow him into slumber, “sleep.” and he does, his eyes becoming far too heavy to fight anymore.

Bruce slips into slumber.

XXXX

Oswald Cobblepot stays as far away from Bruce Wayne over the next few weeks. He doesn’t utter a single word to him or even glance in his direction, as if he’s pretending Bruce doesn’t exist at all. Bruce is glad of it, content, he'd rather not speak with the oily snake again. Though he basks, just a smidgen because Jerome and his little squad of cronies seem to have taken a shine to the infamous Penguin.

They make his life miserable and if Bruce was half the person he used to be, he would have stepped in to defend Oswald, he’d have faced Jerome with a grim fortitude, ordering him to leave Oswald be. But Bruce was not that individual anymore, would never be that person again.

So, he observes as restrained as he usually is, he can’t indeed recall the last occasion he spoke—it might have been when he was pressed to introduce himself at group therapy—it was best he remains silent, melting into the backdrop hopeful they’d ignore him, overlook him like everybody else had.

“Oswald, why don’t you tell us about yourself.” The doctor suggests and Bruce lifts his eyes to accompany the group as they shift their focus as one to Oswald, he slips further into his chair as if wishing it’ll help somehow.

“What’s to add that you don’t already know.” Bruce snorts at his answer, because he’s not incorrect, they have files upon files crammed with intelligence on all of them, and because it’s something he might have answered himself.

The doctor turns her awareness to him, she is inquisitive, he hardly reacts much these days, he might as well be mute. Bruce takes notice that she isn’t the alone one engrossed in him today, rather a few sets of eyes seem drawn to him, he throws his coldest glare on them.

“Bruce, tell us what’s on your mind.” she’s challenging him, reaching to the part of him that’s headstrong, that won’t withdraw down. 

“I wished to carve out Oswald’s tongue, in the dining hall that time.” His voice is cold, eyes dark, swirling as he lets her peek at the thoughts that sometimes flutter through his mind. Dark, terrifying...awful thoughts. She twitches, she’d been the one to question what swirled within his mind, there’s a roar of amusement from Jerome, Oswald flings him a ferocious glare to which Bruce ignores.

“I see, may I inquire why you felt that way?” She's relentless this doctor and Bruce wishes he’d remained reticent.

But he entertains her, nonetheless, “he speaks too much.” she’s recording it all down when Oswald proves Bruce’s point.

“Oh, you—“ the dark haired man snaps a finger at him, a sneer twisting his features. “How the mighty have fallen” he jeers, his chin protruding out, “your parents must be so proud.” he feels the darkness simmer to the surface, his fury swelling and it must appear on his face because Oswald pales and Bruce starts to rise only Oswald hits the ground with a considerable thud, unconscious, second later and Bruce shifts his gaze to the laughing form of Jerome.

“Peace at last.” is all he declares with a wink intended for Bruce. And he shouldn’t be feeling the surge of gratitude that overwhelms him, but he is, and he detests that Jerome gets the blow to silence Oswald, hates that it’s invariably Jerome who can prompt such an impassioned response from him when nothing and no one else seemed able to.

He twists away from the scene and retreats back inside himself. To the place where everything he can’t deal with is bolted away.

XXXX

Jerome corners him during recreation time a few weeks later. Every night he’s blocked out his attentive eyes through the vent, avoiding his attempts to obtain recognition or his close proximity to his bed in the dead of night. They have reduced his prescription, he’s required to learn—they say—to deal with his emotional responses healthily, that Bruce should face his anger issues with no violence. 

“Bruce” he croons “baby doll...you’re avoiding me.” He's been reared against a wall in the farthest corner, Jerome’s buddies have served as a barrier to close them in and keep the Orderlies from watching them. His nostrils flare, breaths quickening at the intrusion of personal space. “I don’t appreciate it, makes me wanna get your attention anyway, anyhow.” he leans closer, his lip at Bruce’s ear. “Let me treat you to a show tonight.” he draws away to peer into Bruce’s eyes, his heart starts to violently beat away against his ribs. “Don’t fall asleep, kay?... I’m gonna make you laugh.” His grin is wild, maniacal, twisting his features.

A memory flashes, a torn face, blood, a mirror maze...his reflection—white, smeared paint,a blood smeared mouth...the anger, fury, rage—he sucks in a sharp breath, pushing it down.

Laugh? He doesn’t recall the ring of his laughter. When did he last laugh? At what? With who? No, he doesn’t wish to speculate about it. Instead, he looks Jerome dead in the eyes, sucks in another breath, mimicking his actions he leans close to his ear and in a cracked voice whispers;

“You can try.” he speeds past him then, through the barrier of inmates as they break apart for him, and he drifts away back towards his chamber. He doesn’t doubt Jerome would retain his pledge, he would show up tonight with the dedication to make him laugh.

The worst part is, Bruce discovers that he wants him to try. His mind had shifted. It was to be foreseen the specialists informed him he'd been ‘indoctrinated’ as they dubbed it. His mind twisted, his character molded into something else... qualities that would have unsettled, disturbed or angered him did not, not now, individuals he’d once cherished meant little to nothing to him, and he’d executed the sole individual who cared for him. Looked him straight in the eyes and drove him through with a sword, he still woke with the blood caking his palms. He'd killed Ra’s al Ghul and watched the fall of the Court Of Owls, with little compassion and little regret.

It made him no better than Jerome Valeska. They all recognized it, it’s why they gave up on him. 

Or did he give up on them?


	3. Weak as I am.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce begins to face his demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update will be a little longer, it’s going to be (hopefully assuming my hard work pays off) an emotional chapter for poor Bruce. I’m also getting ready to update ‘Troubles Gonna Follow Where I Go’ and ‘When We Collide’. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Weak as I am.**

He’s missed the special event clearly, having been hailed in to meet the doctor last minute to review his development. They are happy that he is opening up and allowing the surge of emotion back in, time, it would take some time, and he’d likely never be the individual he was before all of this, feeling brazen Bruce has inquired if anybody, his friends, Jim Gordon, anybody has been in communication to arrange visitation. 

They haven’t but detective Gordon calls for periodic updates on his improvement. That at least is something, he thinks. 

Bruce has been back for five minutes when Jude invades his room, here, to accompany him to the congregation in the recreation room, he joins the area in time to see Oswald landing a decisive blow to Jerome’s face, both are covered in blood. 

A trickle of something alien flutters in his chest as he keeps standing off to the border, noting Oswald’s dismay when Jerome laughs all his efforts off, affirming that he knew he could fix him which merely serves to inflame the dark-haired man more as he heaves and stomps away. Eventually, everyone trickles elsewhere to play board games, chat among themselves or drift off to their chambers. The night shift orderlies were under Jerome’s sway enough that they allowed him and his little band alone.

“You missed the spectacle, baby doll.” Bruce notices Oswald staring from the opposite side of the room. “It would have made you laugh, I know it. Oswald put on a magnificent production.” he grins over at the brooding dark haired man.

Bruce examines the wound on Jerome’s face and steers him to the bench, “sit down Jerome.” he urges, his heart pulses, splashes of blood down another’s face burst in his mind, he swallows, closes his eyes and breathes—forcing the image aside—and inches closer.

“You’re bleeding.” he reaches into his pocket, bringing out a tissue, raising his palm to Jerome’s face before he indeed speculates about what he is undertaking and to whom, he’s wiping away the blood from a scared face.

As if he cares….does he care? There’s assuredly something between them, he’s felt it building steadily over the longest time.

“Folk'll start talking if you carry on Bruce.” he stills his hand, shrugging his shoulders. Why did he care anyway... he’d failed everyone whose opinions counted, and Bruce was starting to realise, recognize that there was so much more to the infamous Jerome Valeska beneath the surface?

“Let them, I don’t care.” he utters, Jerome grips his wrist with extraordinary tenderness and Bruce looks him in the eye, becoming trapped in what he sees swirling there. 

“Sure you do, once you’re better Gotham will accept you back.” Bruce shakes his head, no, no they wouldn’t, and he wasn’t certain there was a chance of becoming better—he didn’t seem unwell, the doctor’s knew it, they saw he’d been twisted into a person separated from whom he’d once been. Bruce was different now and would be henceforth—painting him as a disturbed individual, marking him with that title only gave them breathing space to suffer the guilt less, making themselves feel better regardless of the evidence that Bruce was captured, twisted, sculpted into some else, and they’d let him down.

Bruce had let himself down and...no, he still could think about it. Though he would have to deal with it, sooner or later.

“I feel don’t ill ...I don’t know what I feel anymore.”

He raises an eyebrow with a smirk, “no, definitely not ill.” he concedes, “you’re perfect Bruce, just as you are.” he cleans the last spatter of blood absently from the wound, his fingers lingering a second too long against Jerome’s skin, his heart thumps like a drum, he feels... he feels... far too much all at once and it’s frightening, his hand quivers, he lets it fall away.

“You’re mistaken... I’m anything but perfect.” That's what it seems like, a stalk of his old identity, a killer. The Bruce everybody admired, everybody preferred to clasp to was lost... the Bruce that lingered was the only part left behind, a shadow, a shade, a nobody. 

“I don’t recognise who I am anymore.” he blurts out in a cracked whisper.

Fingers lift his chin drawing his attention back to Jerome’s face, he hadn’t realised how close they’d leaned towards each other, his breath hitches, his pulse starting to race, “you’re fucking special darlin’, don’t you forget it.” it’s too much all at once, revealing such things in someone like this again, feeling things that burn his veins and kick-start his heart... he can’t deal with this the onslaught all at once, unexpectedly his sense of flight kicks in, he tears away, retreats and leaves Jerome staring after him.

He’s so divided up inside, confusion, loathing and an awakening of, of... of needing.

A craving for affection, attention, for someone to fight for him, to draw comfort from and to confide in.

Jerome Valeska made him endure so many things, the most powerful, he admitted to himself was that Jerome made him feel alive. He recognised it should feel so, so wrong... but... if he was honest, it felt good. Nice, Jerome didn’t criticise him for his former actions, he was... he was almost turning into a comfort for Bruce, a crutch.

He’s so overcome by his anxieties, his swirling emotions, his reactions to Jerome Valeska that he feels the initial sting of tears building in his eyes, he can’t recall the last occasion he cried…

... but that night he sobs himself to slumber, so broken up inside, gasping on the emotional conflict. 

XXXX

Time has escaped Bruce as he squints bleary eyeing into the darkness, his cheeks feel sticky from the tracks his tears left behind, he recalls crying himself to sleep—something he hasn’t done since that night—he screws his eyes shut; he doesn’t want to relive it again while waking.

“Never thought I was a sentimental guy, baby doll... but you bring something out in me.” Jerome sets himself near the bed, Bruce shuffles into a sitting position wrapping his arms around his knees.

A futile attempt to hold himself together because deep inside his chest the fragile barrier he’s erected is cracking.

“I’m thinking we’ve crossed a line, you can’t seem to stay away.”  _ I don’t want you to stay away _ , the thought resounds in his head. His voice is hushed not as devoid of emotion as he would prefer, Jerome always made him feel exposed in a way he’d never felt before. 

Jerome barks a laugh, “funny,” he says twisting to glance at the brunette, “because you might be onto something with that.” he puffs out a breath, this feels almost like a moment between them Bruce acknowledges, his skin prickles, he shifts to observe the expression on Jerome’s face, he looks far abroad for a moment before he blinks returning to the here and now.

“Where did you go?” he’s curious enough to ask, if it were anyone else, he wouldn’t care. “Just now, that far away look…” he trails off under the intensity of Jerome’s eyes. They swirl as they focus on him and there’s so much within Jerome Valeska—buried deep beneath the projection he portrays—he’s a dangerous killer, a madman, a prince of anarchy, of chaos and mayhem but Bruce is certain he sees more hidden within the depths.

For the first time in a long while Bruce wants to understand someone, to connect with another individual and maybe, he thinks, just maybe Jerome feels the same—perhaps it explained why he visited Bruce—he was catching glimpses of the character underneath the mask. “I don't mind, you know.” he says shifting his gaze away, his cheeks feel warm.

“Hmm, What’s that?” Jerome’s tone is distracted and Bruce struggles to meet his eyes, feeling vulnerable.

Bruce clears his throat, hesitating, chewing on the inside of his lip, “I...don’t mind crossing the line.” his heart is thundering as if he’s running a marathon. He’s not sure why he reveals such a thing, perhaps because whenever he is around the redhead too much broils to the surface.

A gentle finger tucks under his chin drawing his face to meet hazel eyes, the smile stretching Jerome’s cheeks is not his typical grin, it’s so tender, so sincere...genuine...it illuminates his eyes, Bruce’s breath catches, beautiful, the word drifts across his mind.

It startles him.

“I don’t mind either, baby doll…” his stomach flutters, but he feels his lips lift at the corners just a tiny measure, stretching into a small smile, the first smile he’s smiled for the longest period of time.

His smile is ruined by a yawn as exhaustion overtakes him. Apparently he would suffer bouts of severe fatigue because his mind was working hard to repair itself and it took its toll. 

Jerome is staring at him a little shell shocked, maybe because he’d been the first person to draw a smile from Bruce, he isn't sure, he doesn’t have the energy to ask as he leans over, closer, resting his head against Jerome’s shoulder while stifling another yawn.

It feels nice.

Bruce feels safe basking in Jerome’s heat, he appears at ease when Jerome slips his arm around his shoulders pulling him tighter, pressing his lips to his forehead an action that should make Bruce feel uncomfortable, but it doesn’t, Jerome shuffles them both, so they are laying on the bed.

“This doesn’t leave the room, I have a reputation to keep darlin’” he chuckles, Bruce mews a sleepy response as his eyelids droop. He might have laughed had he not been so exhausted.

“G’night.” he mumbles pressing closer.

“Good night, sweet thing.”

When he wakes the following morning he seems cold without Jerome’s presence, lonely, but he still feels well rested, he’s slept the best he’d slept in a long, long time.

He feels he might just be able to get through the darkness pressing down on him.

Bruce also knows from that moment on that he’s come to view Jerome as his friend, perhaps his only friend and he doesn’t feel so alone anymore.

  
  


XXXX

Jerome is scheming something Bruce thinks over the next few weeks. His companion is quiet, far less rowdy and tucking himself away with his little crew in the corner of the recreation area. Bruce means to ask him about this spectacular plan he’s cooking up when they are alone, but he’s not certain he wishes to investigate further into Jerome's business, perhaps once upon a time he would have.

But now... the mental energy such ruminations would require was much too much for him to deal with.

“You’re awfully cosy with Jerome Valeska lately.” he recognizes that snide tone. His hands clench as Oswald shuffles closer following Bruce’s field of sight. “It’s curious, I seem to recall he sought to murder you... twice wasn’t it?”

There’s something about Oswald Bruce doesn’t like, he reminds him of a sullen child who will throw an outburst if matters aren’t progressing the way he wants. 

Bruce clamps his teeth together, “that is none of your business.” Bruce chances a glimpse at the dark-haired man, who raises his eyebrows with a sly smirk.

“Maybe not, but if someone were to hear of your... whatever it is between you—what, with who you are—I’m confident they’d have you separated.” Bruce twists to face the slimy serpent, Oswald smiles sweetly. “Poor Jim Gordon might die of a heart attack once he realises you’re getting mixed up with Valeska.” he folds him arms, puffing out his chest—pleased with himself—if Jim were to suddenly swoop in after virtually a year of no contact Bruce will be shocked. His relationship with Jerome—however complicated it may be—was no one’s business.

“Are you threatening me?” he feels the irritation building, building, building, he craves to punch the smug expression off his face, he advances... menacingly—he’s not certain why he’s so annoyed if he’s honest, maybe because he knows if he is separated from Jerome...it would be insufferable. 

Bruce cares for Jerome... perhaps more than he should, but it’s too late now, and he’s not letting someone threaten him, he inches closer his teeth exposed, eyes dark, he isn’t a feeble trembling child, he’s suffered more horrors than anybody his age should have—committed atrocities of his own too—he will not stand for Oswald’s idle threats. He’s worked hard to focus himself for years, to overcome his fears and pain tolerances, he’s overcome near-death experiences and loss, and he’s slowly, gradually raising himself back up from having his mind twisted against him.

“Count yourself lucky I promised I’d leave you be Oswald...” they still didn’t realise that he wasn’t entirely the same Bruce, he wasn’t unwilling to employ force—he would never kill, not in the way Jerome does, not for enjoyment or fun or indeed no reason at all but to put on a production... but he can’t refute that if the circumstances were exceptional, he would—he’ll ensure he causes suffering to any who wrong’s or intimidates or seeks to hurt him.

He will be far, far stronger this time around, the decisions he makes will be his own—because he determines, not for the sakes or whims of others—his way of life will be his holding, as his judgments will be.

The initial blow knocks the breath from Oswald, he folds in on himself, “the Bruce who toed the line is gone...don’t make petty, idle threats to me and mine again.” He works not to think on how he’s just claimed Jerome, not as he hands Oswald another blow to the gut and not when he strides away avoiding the burning eyes he can feel pinned at his back.

XXX

Therapy is in session again but this time...this time, Bruce is determined to open up—to begin healing on a deeper level, because he understands what he did was terrible, he detests himself every day—but he does not want to live out the rest of his life in Arkham, he refuses to accept total responsibility—he was manipulated so deeply—and whether or not people hate him on the outside, he longs to leave this place—he doesn’t belong here and if he has to fight tooth and nail to make them see that, he will. He will find some way—somehow to gather enough evidence to prove the Court of owls were responsible for manipulating him.

“My name is Bruce.” he wavers, taking in the faces regarding him. They are all in this place because here and there, somehow along the beaten path of life, they too have lost their way. He sucks in a quick sigh, he can’t carry himself to glance toward where he knows Jerome sits, paying attention to him, he feels so much when he catches those hazel eyes looking in his direction.

“Hello Bruce, why don’t you all give Bruce a warm greeting.” The Doctor is delighted he’s opening up, is taking part in a group therapy session. 

A chorus of greetings follows, Bruce focuses his eyes on the floor, at his shoes, at anything but the surrounding faces—he can’t look at them and communicate.

“How have you been, Bruce?”

Bruce ruminates licking his parched lips, wiping his moist palms. Trying, struggling to work through the clutter of swirling chaos within, to concentrate on the prominent emotions and thoughts.

“Most times I felt nothing, nothing at all. I woke up, and I thought; wonderful, I have to do this again- find ways of feeling something, anything... find ways to get through each day.” his hands shake, palms slick with perspiration, the thumping of his heartbeat echos, reverberates throughout his frame. “I gave up, I couldn’t do it, I shut it all away... I... I just needed it all to end.” His sigh is sharp as he forces the last part out into the open, the place is hushed, so, so silent as if they are consumed in his speech.

There’s a rustle of movement, “and now Bruce, do you think any differently?” She is patient as he sifts through his cluttered emotions; her smile doesn’t flounder and her nod is supporting. He’s trembling so, saturated in warmth and perspiration, he’s working to compose the thought cluttering his head. The words are a jumble, he’s practically gagging on them.

“I feel like... I’ve woken from a deep, long sleep... but I’m still exhausted... and... and there’s a hollow cut deep in my chest—it hurts so much and I still can’t look there... but, there's also a little spark burning, lighting the path forward.” He breaks off, his cheeks wet with tears, he can’t look inside because he realizes what demon he must confront. And the flame Jerome kindled within him might not be enough to chase the darkness away.

He wasn’t ready to face that side of himself yet.

But he’s feeling hope, he realises the feeling sparked within the hollowness is hope.

XXX

He is healing, his doctor is satisfied with his improvement, they have him enrolled in therapy sessions five times a week. More and more he’s prepared to open up, able to breathe a little easier. His fractured memories are forming coherent, sharper pictures.

They are difficult to face, and often the emotions attached to each memory almost crush him. The weight of them bearing down on his shoulders like lead weights.

But he’s working through it.

It’s not without suffering. By the light of day he presents them a steady facade, what they are expecting to see on his recuperation. By night Bruce is haunted by horrors and ghosts he’s still not ready to confront. His only respite seems to have become Jerome’s continuous presence during the lengthy, horrifying hours at night.

they talk in hushed whispers, they bask in the silence, always, always when Bruce wakes, his throat hoarse from screaming, soaked in sweat and tears, working to catch his breath. Jerome is as his side smoothing aside the hair pasted against his skin.

“Shh, sweet thing.”

Bruce seeks to grip Jerome’s hand because he needs to anchor himself, the nightmares are becoming worse, vivid, it feels too real, too clear, having to repeat the moment again and again and again until he locks it away, all he that was required of him was to turn his feelings aside, shun the agony, the anger, the rage. 

They wanted him to do it, forcing him to reflect the worst point of his entire life—over and over and over... again and again.

Bruce doesn’t want to think the nightmare again tonight, he needs a distraction, his eyes shift to Jerome as he twines their fingers together, “what are you planning that you need Oswald Cobblepot?” he blurts because he recalls Jerome mentioning it once, and he’d been too high at the time to voice his questions.

A brow is raised, “something spectacular.” he grins, that mad glint entering his eyes, his expression full of mischievousness. 

Bruce doesn’t like the feeling churning within his stomach, he feels like, like maybe something terrible is being foreshadowed.

As if something creeps seeking to take one more thing Bruce cherishes.

Bruce frowns, “Jerome, promise me you won't do anything that takes you from me?” worry gnaws at him, he knows he can’t talk Jerome out of whatever it is he’s planning, but he has become dear to Bruce, and he doesn’t think he could handle it if something happened to him. 

“Darlin’...”Jerome breaths inching closer, much closer than usual, his cheeks heat when they come nose to nose, his breaths speeding up, palms clammy—his stomach fluttering—a hand cups his cheek, he leans into the touch. “Are you worrying about me?” he throws the question jokingly, though Bruce can see how he holds in a breath anticipating his answer.

“Of course I am, you’re the only person who understands me.” he thinks Jerome might have stopped breathing, but he sucks in a sigh with a chuckle—his eyes are shining with an emotion that softens his features—Bruce can only stare. “I... can’t lose anyone else, Jerome.” it would ruin him so. 

He would drown.

Jerome blinks, places on his chest and winks, “I swear to be careful or suffer the wrath of Bruce Wayne.” Bruce flushes but can’t help the smile or the small bubbling laughter that slips past his lips.

Jerome hitches a breath, his body stiffening as his eyes twinkle, and he reaches out drawing Bruce to face him. A triade of emotion flicker across Jerome’s face; surprise, delight, and something else. 

“I told you I’d make you laugh, didn’t I?” He draws closer resting his forehead against Bruce’s, the contact feels intimate, pleasant breath whispers across his skin, and he feels the heat deepen in his cheeks, his body is heated and clammy and his heart slamming against his ribs. 

“You did.” Bruce affirms, his voice rougher.

Jerome’s eyes are burning into him with such intensity Bruce feels...he feels...like the spark within him is busting into an inferno that consumes him from the inside out.

“I’m glad,” Jerome clears his throat as if he’s struggling as much as Bruce is, “that I didn’t kill you Bruce Wayne…” a gentle touch trails across his heated cheeks, his eyes flutter closed at the sensation.

“I’ve decided to make it my mission in life to make you laugh more, baby.” Bruce hopes Jerome means it. 

He feels happy or as peaceful as it was possible to feel, there’s something he must face, sooner rather than later he thinks, sitting his gaze to the corner where he always, always lurked.

Alfred,the only person besides his parents who had truly understood, accepted and loved Bruce for everything he was. 

Bruce needs to face what he’s done, needs to accept it was he who took away the life of the last remaining family he had.

The figure is the corner, ever lurking...waiting for the time when Bruce might be ready to face the pain, the guilt and the agony that will almost certainly tear him to pieces.

It’s not a ghost he comes to realises as he’d thought before, just a representation of his guilt, a projection from Bruce’s head and heart and soul.

“What are you looking at darlin’?”Jerome is looking towards the corner, his brow scrunched in confusion.

“Something I have to face.”sorrow laces his tone and a tear slips over his cheeks, he draws in breath slipping his eyes to meet Jerome’s “before I can laugh again, smile again...live again.”he’s trembling, cold and grateful when Jerome tucks him against his warm body, arms circling his shuddering frame.

“Ah.”is all Jerome murmurs as if he understands what Bruce knows he must face, he doesn’t inquire further than that and instead just holds him closer.

Bruce sighs, tears continue to fall and he’s sure those great heaving sobs are his own—but, he’s lost within his own torment and memories he’s avoided piecing together.

he hears….so quietly over his own sobs, over Jerome’s soft shushing.

And it shatters Bruce completely.

But he hears the rough, whispered words drift along the space to his ears…

…. _ ’ It’s alright son, it’s alright.’ _

But it wasn’t...might never be again.


	4. This Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finally face some of his demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked quite hard on this chapter and it sure took a lot out of me. So I hope it conveys the emotion I wanted to capture. This is a pretty big turning point for Bruce in the story...he doesn’t have an easy road ahead.
> 
> Once again please excuse any errors.

**This Farewell**

Darkness is closing in, every breath becomes rapid, throbbing against his rib cage—he strains against his holdings—is this a dream? A nightmare?… something else? Perhaps Bruce is spiraling through a mental breakdown. He recalls not feeling himself as he sat down within the group discussion, talking… talking… talking—he thinks of the pulsing in his skull, building and building until a thousand tiny stars obscure his point of view.

Then he wakes to blackness and a bone-deep bite soaking into him, as if strapped down upon a stone altar—he cannot move against the invisible restraints—panicked breaths leave him aching, the obscurity so impenetrable, so encapsulating swaddling his whole form… fear punches through him later, and he cuts off an exclamation of fear as an unpleasant noise penetrates the silence… a thick massive sound cleaving through the space above him, he feels a stinging cut of air blast at his face and raises his eyes to the heavens; his fear intensifies when he glimpses an enormous, striking blade swinging in synchronicity with the thumps of his heartbeat backward and forth, swishing, slashing, cutting through the space. Each blow large, severing the gulf of obsidian above him—each back draft of air biting at his unprotected face, his eyes moistening as the pendulum intensifies its drive, declining, sinking, lowering with each hacking movement.

He chokes on sobs that bubble in his throat, chest heavy… lower… lower… he clenches his eyes shut because he can’t watch as the vast, sharpened blade descends—he won’t see his flesh be torn—gulping a quick gasp as he calculates the powerful swings; backwards and forth, backward and forth of the blade cleaving the surrounding air.

One…

He clenches his fist, preparing himself for the inescapable.

Two…

The pressure of the pendulum directs a sharp blow of wind that strikes his face, ice-cold… like the kiss of the impending death coming to take him. His hair sweeping against his forehead as the buzz swells, the chill clawing closer… closer… closer…

Three…

He braces himself, eyes pressed shut, his hands, a tight ball at his side, his body tense, a silence settles, the pendulum’s rapid swings falter, light blooms—penetrating his closed eyelids, it's almost blinding…

And suddenly, he hears…

‘What’s this master, Bruce?’ 

‘They’re rocks, Alfred.’ 

His breath catches, he forces his eyes to open—the illumination too much at first, it takes a few minutes for his eyesight to accommodate and the coloured spots to disappear, and he looks… he identifies himself, his younger self amassing a stack of large rocks from the grounds of Wayne manor, kneeling beside his younger self is Alfred, scanning the piled rocks.

‘I can see that Master Bruce… Why are you gathering rocks, what are going to do with them all?’

He recalls this; on his seventh birthday, he’d rejected the friends his parent’s had invited over for a surprise celebration. His chest heaves as his younger self admonishes Alfred and… and Alfred just grins, his eyes alight, teasing.

He swallows the lump forming in his throat.

‘I’m going to build a home for my wagon, a secret place that no one knows about.’ 

Alfred rolls his sleeves up with a happy smile, ‘all right then, we better start gathering a few more before anybody notices.’ Bruce smiles despite the pain flooding him because he remembers Alfred devoted the rest of the afternoon scouring the grounds for the ideal sized rocks, they turned up a considerable haul and the following day he puts in hours and hours with Bruce, following the bossy instructions of a seven-year-old—whose concept of a proper wagon hut, was grander than possible to erect with only rocks—he shifts from the sight, feeling the sting in his eyes but, he sure he detects a brief flash as Alfred seems to glimpse his way.

He twists…. Opens his mouth to speak but his view is obscured by the brightest light once again and when he squints his sight clear, the picture around is altered.

Alfred is clutching his gloved hand as they remain in the manor grounds, he inches closer because he’s drawn to the figure of his mother—smiling, alive, happy as she chuckles at something young Bruce says—its pitch black and freezing cold, but they are all wrapped up, watching, waiting… he combs his mind for the recollection; a fireworks display, his father had put on to cheer Bruce up because he was dismayed the circus had already left the city, and he’d so greatly wished to go—to see the clowns, the performers... the whole fantastical show. But on this occasion they hadn’t been able to go, and he’d been so disheartened. His father remembered they had unused fireworks from the previous year and to cheer him up he set up a display—just for them—he moves to a stand beside his mother, his eyes fasten onto her glowing face, and he wants … he seeks to hold her, feel her hold him back.

Such overwhelming sadness encompasses him, his sob is drowned out by loud whistles and explosions of fireworks and he turns away because he misses the moments he’d taken for granted.

“You were so upset about the circus, but as soon as you saw those first sparkles of colour in the sky—all was forgotten.”Bruce pivots, reeling when he comes face to face with Alfred, his Alfred, another sobs escapes and Bruce casts his eyes away. “You can’t escape all this forever… better to face it Master Bruce.”he feels the scene twist, curl in on itself as if melting away and he stands taking in the new surroundings.

Recollections, all of them… his memories, the ones he’s evaded for so, so long. Every breath he inhaled is difficult, he observes from the sidelines flashes from his history, in the alleyway as Alfred shows up on the scene and draws that little boy into his arms, every moment when Alfred was there for him including the times Bruce resented his hovering over him. 

Each image leads into another and another as if stichting each in a patchwork blanket. Was his mind that quilt being sewn together to construct something mirroring what it had previously been?

*****

There is gloom and a bone chilling cold seeping through him, the dribble of water drip, drip, dripping against rock, the rushing torrent of a waterfall... he tumbles forward in the ominous silence, his eyes readjusting to the dark.

He’s in an enormous cave, the echo of his clumsy steps resounding his breath puffs into the open in little clouds, and he rubs his hands together. A sudden cry of fury causes Bruce to lose his foothold and slide against the cold, hard rock, rattling his teeth with the force.

In the waterfall just ahead a picture flickers to life, and he studies the vision as it unfolds, a hall of mirrors, his face painted the blood smeared across his mouth and lips and tongue, the coppery taste, he recalls, made him want to gag, and yet he didn’t, he refused to reveal how frightened he’d felt.

He watches himself from a different vantage lifting the fragment of shattered mirror, face twisted with violence before he catches a glimpse at his reflection and freezes, he had felt such helplessness At that time divided between wanting the pierce Jerome’s chest with the sharp and hurling it aside.

From his present view he sees the darkness within him battling out for control, Bruce hadn’t realized until this point how close he’d been to giving in, plunging into the chasm that dwells somewhere deep within him.

Would he have relished in bringing Jerome to his second death? Or would have grieved for the life he’d taken, the blood on his palms? He wonders if all the violence and fury that blazes within his veins was born the day his parents were murdered, or perhaps it had been there all along. 

Taking an uncertain step forward Bruce approaches the waterfall, each step closer draws up a different vision, memories of his actions born from his rage—times when he’d nearly lost control of himself, practically given in. — until eventually, he treads under the spray, icy droplets bite into his skin speaking his hair as he rests beneath the cascading fall.

Bruce draws in a sharp breath as he drowns under the heavy spray, closing his eyes and fisting his palms... silence befalls around him, until ragged breathing fills his ears, and he opens his eyes coming face to face with Alfred kneeling before him blood oozing from the edge of his mouth.

Anguish fills the brunette because he’s not an onlooker to a memory, this time he’s living out the re-enactment of the moment he’d taken Alfred’s life, the heaviness of the sword in his fists is unbearable as he struggled to force his fists to slacken and release the sword, he can’t control his movements here.

It’s a vision.

There is nothing Bruce can do to alter the outcome, it will remain the same.

“Your destiny is to be Bruce Wayne.” he can’t stand the expression in Alfred’s eyes, the pride and affection and acceptance. “One day you’re going to remember that.” he needs to stop this, he can’t suffer this moment he’s not ready, he never will be.

Internally he’s screaming because trapped within the memory playing out, he can’t communicate the sheer anguish ripping him apart.

“And you’re going to remember how much I love you.” It's too much re-living this moment again after shutting it away for so long. 

“I remember the first time your mum and dad brought you home. They were so exhausted, and they gave you to me,” the light shimmering in Alfred's eyes reveals the affection he feels, love for Bruce who he’s so desperately working to save, to protect as he always had.

Bruce wants to yell that he failed, that he shouldn’t be proud and shouldn’t love him. He wasn’t deserving of Alfred’s devotion and pride.

“This tiny defenceless creature, and they said look after him and I scooped you up in my arms and I held you and you...you opened your eyes.” the reverence within his voice shatters Bruce, all he craves at this point is to release the sword and have Alfred make it all go away with a bone-crushing hug.

Alfred’s voice breaks, “and you looked at me and at that moment—I decided I would do anything for you... anything.” his looks Bruce in the eyes, “so if this is what you need to do, master Bruce, then you crack on.” no, no, no, he realizes what transpires next and struggles with everything in him to seek to avoid it uncaring that it’s a vision.

“You do it.” he surrenders a scream lunging forward, hearing the slick sound of the sword piercing Alfred’s chest watching the blood gushing from the man's lips dribbling down his chin, feeling the warm crimson liquid covering his palms. 

Alfred looks devastated when Bruce pulls away and joins Ra’s al Ghul, his face blank—he blinks because suddenly, he’s detached from the memory form of himself, he’s on his knees before Alfred, tears blurring his vision, cupping his father figures face.

“I’m just so sorry, I’m so sorry... please... please…” his tone is cracked, his heartbreaking as the light leaves Alfred’s eyes, and he stares unseeing, his heart giving its last beat.

Darkness encapsulates him.

Silence falls.

Bruce is alone once again, still he acknowledges the glaze of Alfred’s blood on his hands... an hour from this point Bruce had crumbled, the control on his mind began to fracture, and he slaughtered Ra’s al Ghul before returning to Alfred, intent on using the Lazarus pool to revive him, to bring him back.

Only to be too late…

Alfred couldn’t be saved.

He was dead.

He remembers sitting there cradling Alfred’s cold, lifeless body screaming and screaming and screaming until exhaustion overtook him and he collapsed against Alfred’s form.

That is how the GCPD eventually found them, Bruce clinging to his cold form, screaming and refusing to let go. They must have sedated him in order to remove him and take Alfred away because when he next awoke it was to the medical wing of Arkham Asylum.

*****

Bruce sits in the spot, in the woods where he and his parents used to visit every year, resting by a tree overlooking the vast forest... the sun is setting on the horizon casting an orange glow. 

A fire crackles behind him, and he turns toward the noise.

His breath hitching, his heart clenching.

Alfred is sitting tending the fire, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his face drawn in thought.

He can’t breath, and he can’t tear his gaze away, he longs to move closer, yearns to draw Alfred into his arms and never, never let go.

“Are you just going to sit there and gawk, master Bruce?” He blinks and moves to rest beside Alfred, confusion floods him because this is not a memory perhaps something he’s conjured within his mind?

“Alfred?” his voice hoarse.

He inclines his head, digging into the embers of the fire with a stick. “You need to listen to me Bruce, I mean every word I say, so listen.” he pins Bruce with a serious look.

Tears sting the brunette's eyes. He bites his lower lip attempting to control himself but the dam bursts, and he lunges forward into Alfred’s waiting embrace, uncaring whether this is real or fabricated by his mind.

“I’m sorry... Alfred, I’m so sorry.” a large hand stokes his hair as he trembles, clutching at Alfred, desperately wanting this to be real.

“I know lad, I know...you should know I’ve always been proud of you, that will never change— “he turns the boy's face, so he can peer at him, “you need to forgive yourself.”

Bruce chokes on his sobs, “I can’t... I can’t Alfred I... I killed you.” He wants to scream and shout the fury he feels towards himself for what he’s done but Alfred holds him in his grip.

Keeping him grounded.

“I told you to do it, it’s what you needed and I swore I would be whatever you needed, when you needed it... I love you Bruce, like my own son, I forgive you.” His embrace is secure and warm and safe and everything Bruce missed, everything he would never have again. He can’t speak through the pain and tears washing over him at the moment all he can do is latch onto the figure surrounding him in safety.

His life was empty without Alfred. How could he move forward from here?

“You can do anything you set your mind to master Bruce, you always have...you’re a strong young man and you need to do what is right for you from now on. Do you hear me?” he nods against the man's chest tightening his hold, the warmth engulfing him moments ago is beginning to cool, and he looks towards Alfred, pulling away just enough to see the tears shimmering in his eyes, the fading of his form around the edges?

The form of Alfred slipping away as the minutes tick by.

“Don’t go.” his voice is soft and broken. He clings tighter only for his body to pass through the vision of Alfred. His smile is sad as a hand reaches out to pat his head, it feels like a chill breeze raising the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“I’m proud of you, I forgive you and I love you Bruce, hold on to that... forgive yourself and cling to what makes you happy.” like tiny grains of sand blowing away in the breeze Alfred’s form fizzles out.

Disappearing before his eyes.

He flings himself forward, aiming to grasp hold of the man, his hand falling through him as he hits the ground calling... calling…

Calling his name in a desperate, broken plea to stay.

Accepting everything he’s locked away since Alfred died converge upon him, he’s drowning in pain and anger and regret... crying and screaming, kicking and clawing at the ground beneath him as Alfred’s image is nothing but smoke in the breeze.

He’s left panting, laying there feeling raw and naked awash with emotion, but there is also a small sense of peace.

In the hollow of his chest there’s warmth, just a slight blossoming warmth but enough that he can breathe easier.

“I forgive you, son.” The words are a whisper through the forest as Bruce stares up at the crystalline sky.

“I love you, Alfred.”

The sunlight is sinking on the horizon when Bruce can finally stand, his gaze locked onto the beautiful scenery before him, and he swears for a flash.

A very brief moment he spots three smiling faces bidding him farewell as the sun descends. His heart stills because he thinks it might be his parents and Alfred watching him.

Looking down on him, maybe knowing he’ll be okay.

In time at least.

A tear slips over his cheek.

Perhaps he’d needed this experience, this episode... whatever it had been. A dream? Hallucination? Whatever this was, left him feeling less shattered.

Not healed or better because Bruce realised the road to healing would be long and bumpy, and perhaps he would never heal—perhaps he’d always be troubled—but it was time to discover the person he could be from now on.

Flaws and all.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is finally proven innocent, leaving Arkham proves emotionally draining and he decide on a perfect distraction to focus on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for the long wait, but here is the next part. I do hope you enjoy. Please excuse any errors - I have no beta reader for my Gotham works currently.

  
Stop your crying, helpless feeling

Dry your eyes and start believing

There's one thing they'll never take from you

~*~*~*~*~*~

  
** Chapter Five. **

Bruce is churning inside, it’s surreal to think in a few short days he’ll be a free man, after spending a year and a quarter in this hellhole, working to piece himself back together to a semblance of normalcy, facing his demons and beginning to find who he is as a person now. Evidence had suddenly come to light that proved Bruce’s story, that a secret organisation dubbed ‘The Court Of Owls’ has indeed manipulated his mind for their gain—finally people believed him—it was a shame the people who claimed to care for him has taken so long, a shame they discredited his word when little evidence was available.

He doesn’t quite know how to feel about it all. And if he’s being honest with himself—he’s frightened to leave Arkham—true, he hated it here but...here he felt safe, secure. In Arkham, he had a safety net in the form of Jerome and leaving these walls would leave him bare and alone.

He should be happy, he knows he should, relieved even—that people will finally understand what trauma he’s suffered—it still didn’t change the fact he’d killed people, that he’d killed Alfred, he would never forget nor forgive himself completely, but he has begun to accept that it wasn’t truly his fault. It wouldn’t bring Alfred back, and it wouldn’t change how Bruce hated a part of himself, nor fill the hollow that would forever remain in his chest—a hollow that Alfred had once filled—Bruce wasn’t healed completely likely he never would be.

Bruce hasn’t been granted the opportunity to inform Jerome yet either, something he would have to face once the meeting with Detective Gordon was over—he would rather not be here, sitting within a little room, feeling like he’s on trial—waiting, waiting for Jim to arrive. He didn’t really wish to speak with the man, but he realised it was a situation he’d have to face once he’s released—facing people, talking to the very people he feels abandoned him—was it normal for him to feel afraid?

Was it normal that Bruce didn’t want to leave?

He can hear the irritating tick, tick, tick of the clock in the wall, the sound is loud in his ears —echoing around the too quiet room—like a countdown to something unpleasant, he doesn’t enjoy sitting in this squalid little room, it’s gloomy and depressing.

A click resounds as the door opens, Jim Gordon is escorted in by his doctor—whom Bruce had asked to be present for the meeting—his eyes settle on Bruce, he seems his usual well presented self apart from the slight tremble of his hands as he takes a seat opposite.

A strained smile is offered, Bruce doesn’t smile back—why would he?—this was not a case of forgive and forget, Jim Gordon had known he was innocent from the start, and yet he’d let them toss him in Arkham like a deranged criminal, he’d left him here to fester... Bruce couldn’t trust the man as he’d used to.

He’s not sure that he completely trusts anyone any more.

“You’ve heard the news, Bruce?” The tension is thick, awkward and Bruce can only nod mutely, not trusting his voice. “I’ve taken it to arrange for Lucius Fox to escort you home, I hope that’s okay Bruce?” Again he can only nod, better Lucius than Jim or even Harvey… Jim sighs squaring his shoulders—perhaps determined to draw a response—he should speak, say something, anything...he just can’t.

He’s still processing that he’s soon-to-be free from Arkham, still unsure how he really feels about that.

“That is fine,” he says at last, surprising Jim, he levels the detective with a closed expression. “I would prefer it that way.” a flash of hurt briefly crosses Jim’s face before he smooths his expression.

“Is there anything you need until your release, that I can get for you?” the tension is thick and heavy between them, Jim must sense Bruce’s dismissive attitude towards him.

“No, thank you, detective.” Bruce rises ready to leave, Jim stops him with a gentle hand.

“I am sorry it took so long Bruce, I’m sorry you’ve spent so long here...it can’t have been pleasant.” the dark haired boy narrows his eyes, muttering unintelligible words under his breath—a habit he hasn’t yet learned how to control, often times he has no recollection of doing it—Jim only watches him with a soft gaze.

“It is what it is Detective...you can’t be held accountable, when the evidence was stacked against me.” and that, Bruce thinks, regardless of his personal feelings, is simply what happened. Jim Gordon was one man, one detective against a mountain of evidence that pointed blame on Bruce, the Court Of Owls had been a secret organisation lurking in the shadows for years and years—able to easily cover up their existence—he would never have the same closeness with Jim as he once did, but, Bruce couldn’t blame him. “I guess I’ll see you on the other side.” shrugging off Jim’s hand Bruce walks to the door where his doctor is waiting quietly.

He’s ready to leave now, there’s nothing more to be said and Bruce finds he must sort through the conflict tearing into him.

“Yeah, I’ll see you Bruce.” 

X-X-X 

“Here you are Bruce.”

“Here I am.” Bruce replies glumly, not looking away from the letter in his palms, officially declaring Bruce innocent of responsibility for the crimes he’d committed. 

Jerome lifts an inquisitive brow, “why so gloomy...huh, what’s this?” he plucks the letter from the brunette's hand, his hazel eyes scanning the page. “Oh…” his eyes lift to Bruce’s face, “so… you’re a free man Brucie, acquitted on diminished responsibility.” Jerome seems pleased by this news. “This is good news...why are you acting as if the world is ending?” he sits beside him offering back the paper. 

He feels a shock of anger, his gaze is dark, his eyes burning, “because I don’t know how to be the Bruce everyone expects to see.” a painful truth, who, out there, would accept him as he is now? His mind screams that no one would, how could they? “I don’t... I don’t…” he turns his eyes tightly balling his fists, it’s pathetic.

He feels so pathetic, so heavy...so churned up inside.

Firm hands grip his shoulders forcing Bruce to open his eyes—Jerome’s face is inches from his own, his breath fanning his cheeks. He swallows a panicked sob, “I don’t think I can do it Jerome…” his hands grip Jerome's uniform, his frame trembling. 

“You’re many things Bruce Wayne...a coward ain’t one of em’” he felt cowardly in this moment, Bruce was terrified of what he’d have to face on the outside, or perhaps he was more apprehensive of facing the empty manor—of facing the ghosts of his past—he scrubs at his cheeks puffing out a breath. “Look at me Bruce...look at me.” reluctantly he pulls away his palms netting Jerome’s gaze, “out of everyone here; you don’t belong, you’re not like the rest of us Bruce…” he takes hold of Bruce’s hands, the contact causes Bruce’s heart to speed up. “You’re a good person who's been through some shitty situations, you can do this, all you need is something to focus on.” the brunette furrows his brow.

“Like what?”

The redhead shrugs, “hell if I know Brucie, clean up the corruption of your company...anything that keeps you busy.” that was an interesting thought, perhaps he’d do just that. Lord knows it would take time, and he’d have to dig deep into his companies dealings. Having Lucius Fox as an escort would be the perfect opening for Bruce to broach the subject and perhaps bring him onboard.

“Perhaps.” he leans against Jerome, seeking his warmth against the cold. “It all feels very overwhelming.” a gentle hand combs through his hair, the act is soothing and Bruce can help but relax a little. This is what he’d miss, these moments between them where Jerome ably tamed the rush of emotional turmoil within him.

In Arkham, he had that, on the outside Bruce had nothing. 

No Jerome, no Alfred...the very thought caused panic to swell.

He searches Jerome’s eyes, for all his outward appearance and crass language no one, maybe besides Bruce himself, had glimpsed the person beneath. 

He sucks in a deep breath, centring himself, calming his emotions, “but I’ll try.” And he will try, he will find a focal point to keep him busy. The sensation of Jerome’s finger combing his hair, of his firm, solid form at his back; his safety net, his crutch...he turns in an impulsive moment and presses his lips against Jerome’s taking the redhead by surprise, tears prickle at his eyes, he didn’t think leaving such a gloomy place would cause him such conflicting feelings.

But perhaps it wasn’t leaving Arkham that tore at him.

Moreover, it was the realisation he’d be leaving Jerome, his heart flutters when Jerome runs his tongue along the seam of his lips, his mouth parts with a sigh, fingers trailing along the raised scars on Jerome’s face, memorising each one, the kiss is gentle though he’s sure Jerome is holding back, so Bruce deepens the kiss pressing against him with more firmness, more desperation — fingers stranding through his hair, running his tongue along Jerome’s lips, licking in his mouth with more confidence, he feels the shudder run through the redhead and smiles against his mouth. Glad he’s enjoying it as much as Bruce is.

Bruce has never been in love before, but he thinks maybe he’s falling in love with Jerome, “I’ll try to visit in a few weeks maybe.” his words are a soft murmur, his dark eyes drinking in the faint flush whispering across Jerome’s cheeks.

“Don’t come back here Bruce, even to visit...go home and be Bruce Wayne.” Jerome says, his expression closing off, his fingers resting at his nape — he leans down to connect their lips in a gentle press, his eyes flutter closed as if he’s savouring the moment. Hurt curls inside Bruce’s chest when Jerome pulls away and leaves the way he came, without a backward glance, without a farewell. 

It leaves him cold and feeling far more alone than he thought was possible.

\\*\\*\\*\\*

Leaving Arkham asylum was the single most terrifying moment for Bruce, in fact, he stood before the drab, forlorn building for twenty minutes — staring silently, before Lucius persuaded him into the car with a patience and calm Bruce recalled was the man’s natural disposition. 

What Bruce liked about Lucius was that he didn’t force conversation like Jim, and left Bruce to his thoughts on the ride to Wayne Manor— which seemed to pass far too quickly for Bruce’s liking— before he’d managed to compose his trembling hands, his raging heartbeat they turned onto the path and crossed through the gates, Bruce’s eyes lingering on the looming structure as it drew closer and closer, swallowing his panic. 

I can do this, he chants repeatedly, twisting his fingers as his anxiety builds anew. 

“I took the opportunity to have the Manor cleaned before your release.” Lucius says parking the car. 

“Yes, I imagine it was quite dusty.” he eyes the main doors feeling the sudden slickness of his palms, “thank you, Lucius.” Bruce is thankful for Lucius’ foresight, seeing his home is disarray would only hammer home Alfred’s absence. 

With a deep breath he exits the car.

\\*\\*

  
  


Bruce pauses upon entering the manor, the silence that greets him, the silence that was usually broken by Alfred’s footsteps as he pottered around each floor attending to his duties, it lingered heavy and oppressive bearing its weight down upon Bruce’s shoulders, he almost wishes to be back in his room at Arkham.

With silent encouragement from Lucius he managed to find his way to his fathers study — he hardly glances around the room before settling himself on the leather couch — finding himself staring into the space before him, his thoughts turning to Jerome, whom Bruce missed beyond measure… he felt cold with the knowledge he wouldn’t find the redhead perched at the end of his bed, ready to offer comfort when nightmares plagued him.

“Why don’t I make us some tea, perhaps some food.” Lucius says to break the silence and remind Bruce he was there.

“Yes, yes...thank you.”

Bruce leans back against the cold leather, it creaks beneath his weight, his eyes drift to the closed window, and he briefly thinks of unlocking the latch in case Selina decides to drop by, he doesn’t though, can’t bring himself to move. Instead, he shuts his heavy eyes and slips into sleep before Lucius returns. 

Finding Bruce sleeping Lucius pulls a thick throw from the chair and covers the brunette before leaving to prepare some food for when he wakes, he needed to call Jim and let him know Bruce was home, perhaps not whole or the same person he once was; anyone with eyes could see he was different, changed perhaps irreversibly.

—

_All around him is darkness and hissing voices, heated awful words being spat at him._

_Terrified, he runs through the obsidian void without direction, tears pooling in his eyes._

_He’s sorry…_

_So sorry for everything!_

_It makes little difference to the chilling voices hissing at him, he almost feels them gnashing their teeth as he hurries past an invisible corridor of people._

_‘Bruce... Bruce’ he stumbles towards the voice calling for him, he knows that voice, loves and misses that voice._

_‘You are strong, a man now… this is a dream...wake up!’_

_He’s crying, agony tearing through him as he reaches out his fingers to find Alfred._

_But of course…_

_Alfred is not there, and he never will be again_.

—

He wakes sweating, breathing heavily, his eyes adjusting to the glow of lamplight, and he notes Lucius dozing in the armchair peacefully. He feels a twisting sense of guilt that the man had wasted his time and stayed here with him.

Was he really worth the effort?

He didn’t think so.

Palming his face Bruce heaves a breath, Jerome's words about looking into the company coming to mind, he needed a distraction or else Brice felt he’d go mad.

“Ah, you're awake, I made food, but I didn't want to disturb you.” Lucius stretches, his eyes coming to rest on Bruce. 

“I would ask a favour of you Mr Fox.” Bruce finally says, his voice quiet, his gaze determined “I wish to become more involved with Wayne Enterprises.”

A dark eyebrow is lifted in surprise, “oh? Don’t you think it’s perhaps too soon?” Genuine concern for his well-being shone in the man’s gaze.

“No, I need a distraction to keep my mind focused.” Or else what sanity remains will be lost, he adds silently. 

Lucius clasps his hands together in contemplation, leaving Bruce to simmer awaiting his answer, finally after five minutes the man looks back to him, with a small smile. “Alright, where would you like to start?”

Bruce knew exactly where he wanted to start, and he set about explaining to Lucius, it was time for Wayne Enterprises to realise Bruce Wayne was taking his seat at the head of the table.

He only hoped it proved distraction enough from the mess left behind within his head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics are from ‘The World Is Ugly’ by My Chemical Romance.


End file.
